


The Harmony of Patroclus

by kjadie



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: I'll add tags as I go along, I’m also taking some stuff from the iliad, M/M, POV Achilles (Song of Achilles), POV First Person, kinda messing with Madeline's style but Achilles is a bit (a lot) different than patroclus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-07-23 23:57:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20016901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjadie/pseuds/kjadie
Summary: Sing to me, goddess, and tell me his story, the man so beloved,Of his fall into the gold arms of fury that danced as his tears bled.My mother was a goddess and a daughter of the sea. A nymph. She was taller than any woman, and looked down on the rest of us. Her pale skin was like an ocean pearl, gleaming against the midnight-black of her long hair.The Iliad and The Song of Achilles from Achilles' perspective.





	1. Chapter 1

_Sing to me, goddess, and tell me his story, the man so beloved,_

_Of his fall into the gold arms of fury that danced as his tears bled._

* * *

My mother was a goddess and a daughter of the sea. A nymph. She was taller than any woman, and looked down on the rest of us. Her pale skin was like an ocean pearl, gleaming against the midnight-black of her long hair.

The three old women spoke to her: your son will be greater than his father.

The greater gods dreaded to hear this. They knew what powerful sons could do, the celestial drama they could cause. They feared an unborn child who was pure with divine blood, and gave her to my father as charity. A goddess tied to a mortal. She would never consent to such an indignant marriage. But she found pride in the swell of her belly. It was her blood that would make me strong.

When I was born, I arrived with the rising sun. The dawn bathed me in its rays, shining gold and bright. Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth, was the midwife. She presided over the birth of half-gods like myself, and gave my mother another prophecy: I would be the best warrior of this generation.

My mother held me close, her own half-god child, with a destiny that would rival the heroes in the stars. She smiled, a rare thing, when she clutched me away from my father. He did not object or raise his voice against her. She was a goddess, after all.

And my father was a king. He was loved by our people, and dedicated his life to the gods. “Pious Peleus,” the bards called him. In his youth, he trained with the centaur Chiron, sailed with Jason and had shaken hands with Heracles himself. Though for all his feats, he was humble. Men would come from faraway kingdoms to hear his stories. My nights were often filled with lively company and the sound of laughter in our halls.

I listened with an eager smile and wide eyes. Like a baby is fed with milk, I was fed on my father’s stories of bravery in great battles. When I was told these stories of heroes from another age, I thought: _That will be me._

As a child, I was told that I was a prodigy. I could sing. I could play the lyre. Sometimes I would accompany my father’s stories with music. When I grew older, I began to compose my own songs. But what I truly liked was running.

When I run, time moves at a strange, slow speed. There is a clarity in the air that travels through my legs, my breath, my body. Every race, every distance is a challenge for me to be faster than the time before. Even though I am a prince, I will break into a run along the street or through the palace halls. Back and forth, up and down, in little, pointless circles. Often, and for no reason I can name. It is an instinct like breathing.

Over time, I became bored of racing the other boys in our corner of Thessaly. When emissaries and travelers visited us, I would insist on racing their sons. Nobody could catch me, even if they were older than me. Most had stopped trying to win. If I was anyone but the prince, they would have given up altogether.

  
  
Now, I am five years old. At dinner, my father talks about the summer’s upcoming games, the best games of his generation. They are being held in Lokris, but my father says that there will be boys from Sparta and the island of Euboea. Since Lokris is a wealthy country, larger than ours by several times, he says the prizes would be luxuriant.

I jump on my seat. I shout, “Yes!” before he could ask. Without thinking, I immediately dash on the oakwood table, weaving through the plates like an expert needle through thread. The servants hold their breath. Perhaps they are thankful I do not leave them with a disaster. The guests laugh and cheer as if I perform a miracle. My balance is perfect; my feet do not slip. Not once. I run laps around the room, leaving my meal, still uneaten, on the table. I see my father’s eyes shine with pride.

This my first _real_ race, my first chance to compete with boys from faraway kingdoms. I wonder what their race tracks will look like. The kingdom of Lokris is rich, so I will be competing with other princes. Who will I race? Younger boys, my age, older? As I am falling asleep, I wonder who I will meet, if I will make any friends.

The journey here is long. I am restless from sitting, hungry to stretch my legs when we finally stop. My lungs nearly burst with excitement when I see it. The stadium is larger than my palace, the racing track itself is pristine. No rocks or gravel or any obstacles are littering it.

While my father is talking to another king, I crawl over spectators to see the prizes: gold, gems. Golden gems. Most are too rich for me to notice any one in particular. The exception is the grand prize, an olive wreath, shining and verdant.

Sitting on the dais in the shade is a scrawny boy with scruffy hair. His dark skin is like the bark on fig trees in the winter. He appears to be my age. I wonder why he does not race with me. He is looking at the other runners but I smile at him anyway.

The bull is killed, and it falls silently, blood drenching the ground to my ankles. A good omen, my father says. After, I join the other runners. Our skin is cleaned and oiled. Though, I have a special oil for my feet, made of sandalwood and pomegranate. Since I usually walk barefooted, my father says I should wear it to avoid calluses. I glance at the other boys’ cracked feet. I rub more oil on mine.

The sun warms the golden circlet in my hair. I see the other boys, other princes, eyeing me while I stretch, oil gleaming on our skin. Their mouths are loud with their boasting. They imagine what they will do with their prizes when they win. If they win. There is never a competition against me. I always win. I will win today.

The priest strikes the ground. My feet fall in a casual rhythm like so many times before. Yet every time, it feels new. The breeze catches on my grin. I overtake the other boys, slipping between their larger bodies like a shimmering fish through a stream. Every race is against myself more than my competitors. Meeting the distance is just the thrill.

I win. Easily.

The other runners are pounding the track with their feet. They beat the earth like drums. I wave to the crowd before the next boy reaches the halfway mark.

The difference in our speed is laughable, but I say nothing. I have the manners of a prince. There is little sweat on my forehead, but I wipe it anyway. When the others finish, they are breathless. Some are rubbing their eyes from the dirt I kicked in their face. I do feel bad about that.

But the cheering is music. I beam victory, standing tall while the crowd is crying out: The Swift-Runner Achilles!

The scrawny boy is staring at me. I half-expect him to crown me with the olive wreath. Instead, his father, the king and host of the games, takes it. The king places it on my head, eyes biting me with envy. But my smile will not waver.

I run to my father, who sweeps me in his arms. He throws me on his shoulder. We both hold our prize. He has me, his golden son. I have my emerald crown

“I am proud of you, my boy,” he says to me.

I throw my wreath to the glinting sun and catch it in the air. I am strong. I am fast. I know it and I love to know it.


	2. Chapter 2

Here in Lokris, on the coast, the sun is harsh and the wind blows hard. When the last champions are given their prizes, we begin travelling home. My father is on his large horse, and I ride on my pony. We walk to a tavern where we will stay overnight. 

When the evening truly begins, we are served fish covered in thick salt and olive oil, along with wine in silver goblets. I’m given less wine than everyone else. I huff and ask for more. Why should the rest of our company be treated better than me? But before I open my mouth, my father gives some to me reluctantly. He says I will have endless feasts and more than enough wine when I am older. This annoys me. I want more. I huff again and shift my attention elsewhere.

 _Kytheras_ and lyres begin to play, and I can’t help but dance along. The rhythm becomes faster and faster, and we are carried by the music. I dance with my father, then some other boys until everyone turns their heads. Now, there are jugglers jumping back and forth, leaping and bouncing on their nimble feet. Others stand on their hands and perform tricks! Even with their toes! It’s as if the balls are alive, flying wherever they please but always returning to the jugglers’ hands, flying from hand to hand, but never falling onto the floor. I watch them carefully. My father notices me staring with wide eyes like an owl.

There is the master juggler too. He is wearing a leopard print over his shoulder and a strange staff, whirling with his little ritual. He hurls the balls swiftly in the air and catches them on his foot, on his back, on his head and on his fingertips. I clap, and cheer and cheer. I don’t realize that I’m louder than most of our company. But, this makes him smile. He juggles his balls faster and faster. He is thrilled at the noise, and I can’t look away.

Sometime during his performance, he skips over to me and he gives me a set of balls. They’re smaller than his. I want to ask for larger ones, but I’m also happy with just these. 

I don’t need to see the motions again. I already know them: the force I need to throw the balls, how to move my arms. He juggles again, and I juggle with him. To further challenge myself, I start to toss my olive wreath into the air, twirling it between my fingers and catching it. Once, I even land it on my head! Flawless. The wine is warming my body, but I juggle with a skill that rivals theirs.

Before my father can further protest, the juggler tosses me another goblet of wine, with such dexterity it doesn’t spill. I catch it just as gracefully. I don’t know how he didn’t spill it. It’s as if he’s Dionysus himself! I want to learn how to do it. This drink is more full than the one I had earlier. I toss the balls faster in only one hand. I’m so excited to drink this. I down it quickly, then I drop my balls. This wine is unmixed! It’s so bitter, I nearly spit it out. The entire tavern laughs, and I laugh with them.

My juggling competition with the troupe ends when our revelling slows into the night. The day was long and I am tired, after the race, the dancing, the warm food and strong wine. My father carries me to bed and I sleep. It was a good day.

・・・

We begin our long journey home. I can’t stop thinking about the games: the shout of charioteers, the bloody dirt from the wrestlers, the glint of javelins in the air. I remember the men I saw, their feats of strength and speed. They are skills I do not have. Yet.

For now, I toss my balls into the air and catch them as we ride. My father often looks at me and laughs. I know he’s pleased with my performance in the race, and he likes my tricks. Sometimes he ruffles my hair and praises me. I cannot wait to show the foster boys. They will smile and laugh with me too.

・・・

At my home, Phythia, I spent my meals with the foster boys. I could never remember their names though. They all looked the same to me. But sometimes, my heart would beat faster around one boy or another. During my music lessons, my mind would drift away to the boys, our racing and wrestling, slick with oil.

We often played dice and knucklebones together. When foster boys arrived in Phythia, they would often give me gifts to earn favor with me and to display their wealth. Sometimes we would gamble with these gifts. I had so many, it was nothing to me. Nearly every time, I would _almost_ lose, just to keep the other boys interested. If I won easily, they wouldn’t play with me. I lived for the competition. Few boys would race me.

Sometimes we would hide from each other in the fields of the hard-earned golden harvest. My favorite place to hide was in the hillside vineyards, around the pastures which surrounded the woods. We were careful not to trample the harvest, but it couldn’t be avoided.

One day, I was hiding, waiting for a boy to find me. I was bored. I plucked a few of the grapes and juggled them. I didn’t know how many I was juggling. Five? Six? Seven? I didn’t think about it, and tossed them higher and higher into the air.

I should have brought some figs to juggle instead. Another one of my favorite places to hide was in the kitchen. I could steal figs there, more figs than I would eat in the evenings for dessert. The servants would wander and pace around, looking for the missing figs. But I had them.

After some time, a boy found me. I assume from the grapes I was juggling into the air.

“Gotcha!” he shouted. My heartbeat was faster. Just for a moment. He tried to scare me. I laughed under my breath. “I saw the grapes in the air and ran. What were you doing? I have never seen anything like it.”

“Juggling! I learned at the games! They were _amazing._ ” I stood up, feeling like my smile would burst like a ray of sunlight. I kept juggling to impress him. “Though, I liked the chariot races more. Every chariot had four horses. Four! They whipped and lashed at each other. A few crashed, both horses and chariots. Splinters of wood flew, there was blood and guts everywhere. Oh, and you should have _seen_ the feast for the victors.”

“I wish I could have gone,” he said.

“Should I ask my father to hold a race here?” I thought out loud. Before he could answer, I said, “Yes, I think I will ask him.”

“Will the feast be big like the one you went to? With other jugglers? Maybe then, I could learn how to juggle like you!”

He would never have this talent like mine. But he picked a grape and tossed it in the air. It fell to the ground. He missed and looked embarrassed. “Would you teach me?”

“Later. I am going to ask him now.”

“And he will allow it?” 

I thought of the races, the banners on the chariots. And of course, the feast. “Of course. He has never said ‘no’ to me.” I smirked. “He even let me drink wine at the feast.”

Later, in the depth of night, my mother visited me from the ocean waves. She often did, nearly every night. She asked about my day, what the other boys thought of me. Everyone looked at me as if I was a marvel. I got bored, though I never stopped. Happiness is contagious, after all.

She always asked me these questions, and I always said the same thing. The boys adored me. Out of envy or adoration, I do not know. Both, perhaps. It was easy to make them smile and laugh.

After she asked these questions, she would ask me if I wanted to live with her, in the caves under the sea. “The nymphs would worship you,” she said. What would a life like that be like? Without the boys I played and wrestled with? Without my father, telling his stories of adventures around the fire? A life without figs? I could never see a life without figs.

Their marriage was famous, commonly spoken of when emissaries would visit. How he conquered her. A goddess. She was a gift from the greater gods for his piety, he would say, and laugh with the men.

But aside from this, my father never asked about my mother's visits. He never spoke of her at all. At least, not like she spoke of him.

“He was diseased with mortality,” she would say. My blood was tainted because of him.

It was said that she was poisoning my mind with her romance of the ocean depths. Because of this, my father fulfilled all of my wishes. Even though I was a small child, every desire of mine was treated as if it had been an edict from Zeus himself.

It was silly to suggest my father would not allow the feast. I tried to hear my father saying the word: no.

… no? It was a word I had never heard from him. 

・・・

Not long after, my father told me about a girl. The evening was already long. My eyes shifted away from his eyes and to the glowing fire. I watched the flames and the wood, bright like coals. The smoke swirled around in little patterns. Horses, dogs. A spear.

“She is the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said. He might have said her name, but I forgot it. He said something about presenting myself as a suitor.

The idea of marriage seemed far away. Sometimes I heard muses sing wedding songs, but I had never seen a princess, their veils or weddings. I asked him, “What does she look like?”

He waited a while before speaking. “I do not know. Rich, I presume. Wearing the finest clothes, concealed only in the best areas, perfect for imagination. However, it is unlikely anyone will see her. Highborn women—princesses especially—are veiled to protect modesty.”

I did not know what most of those words meant, but I did not care to ask. I stopped listening after that.

Girls. I was always glad when the servant girls were gone. I never liked girls and their dresses and perfume. The scent was harsh and hard to breathe.

“…many suitors will come…” I liked the boys and the smell of sweat and dirt on our skin. Why would I want to be around a girl when I could race and wrestle with boys? 

“…from lands with greater wealth than ours…” Sometimes, my heart would beat faster around one boy or another. During my music lessons, my mind would drift away to our racing and wrestling in the sunlight, slick with oil. It was natural, right?

Perhaps I interrupted him, perhaps I did not. “I’m not interested,” I told him.

He laughed. I did not know why. “You are young. You will care someday. It is your choice, and I will not ask you again. Though, you would be envied for having a beautiful wife.” He coughed to gain my attention. “Well then. On the many roads I have taken, I learned that we are not meant to be in this world alone. If you are not interested in being a suitor, you should have a different kind of companion. A therapon.” 

_The-ra-pon._

This was a word I had not heard before.

“Therapon?”

“Yes, therapon. You are the hero of our time, and you should have the best of companions. A therapon is a man who will care for you in many ways.”

“Like a servant?”

“No, not like a servant. A therapon is more honorable than a servant. They are bound willingly by duty. He is someone who will shine alongside your fame and glory. An adviser in times of both peace and hardships, and a friend in times of war, never leaving your side. He is someone who should be devoted to you in every way. They make this life easier to bear. Do you not want this?”

Of course I wanted a companion, but I could not think of a boy I liked. There was the one in the vineyard, when we talked about the games and the feast. Since then, I had taught him how to juggle. Easy tricks, really. I liked him, but I got bored after a while. When I thought about it, if we were not wrestling or racing, all the boys were boring. 

My father looked at me and continued. I sat with my chin on his knee while he stroked the curls in my hair. I gave him my attention. “Jason’s therapon was legendary. When I sailed with Jason—” I had heard this story too many times, but he added this: “—his therapon saved his life, many times. That is who a therapon was to him.”

“He saved Jason’s life?”

“Many times.”

“So, he was his friend.”

“He was much more than a friend, but I will tell you about that when you are older.”

What does _that_ mean? I want to know now. Especially more, because he doesn’t want to tell me. 

How much older did I have to be? I was already eight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Achilles slept with women in the Iliad, but I think TSOA shows him as pretty gay. Of course, sexuality was very different in those days, but that’s how I see it. I tried to get a bit of that across in this. I have many, many, many reasons for writing Achilles as 100% gay and I’d hella love to talk about this because I just love him so much


End file.
